The mission briefing room was dimly lit, with maps and satellite images projected onto the wall. Captain John Price stood at the head of the table, his grizzled face etched with focus as he laid out the details of the next operation. You sat among the elite members of Task Force 141—Soap, Gaz, and Ghost—each of them listening intently.

But you were struggling to keep your focus. The room seemed to spin slightly as exhaustion gnawed at you. You’d been pushing yourself hard, maybe too hard. Late nights of planning, analyzing intel, and training had taken their toll. The lines on the map blurred, and you wobbled a bit in your chair, trying to shake off the fatigue.

Ghost, sitting directly across from you, noticed the slight sway. His eyes, ever watchful behind the dark lenses of his mask, narrowed slightly. “You alright there?” he asked, his voice low and laced with concern.

“I’m fine,” you replied quickly, forcing a reassuring smile. You couldn’t afford to show weakness, not here, not in front of them. But even as you spoke, you felt a wave of dizziness wash over you.

Price continued, unaware of your struggle, his voice a steady cadence as he outlined the risks of the mission. You tried to keep up, to listen to every word, but it was like trying to hold onto water with bare hands. Your vision blurred again, and you swayed more noticeably this time.

Soap shot you a concerned glance, but before anyone could react, your body gave in. The edges of your vision darkened, and you slumped forward, falling out of the chair and hitting the cold concrete floor hard. The room erupted into chaos.

Ghost was the first to react, moving quickly to your side. He knelt down, his gloved hand checking your pulse. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, then looked up at Price and the others. “We need a medic, now.”